


Mad Honey Disease

by Coprolite



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Abuse, Dubious Consent, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Violence, this one is a doozy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coprolite/pseuds/Coprolite
Summary: There exists Daehyun. And then there exists the Daehyun which only Youngjae knows.





	Mad Honey Disease

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY HAS LOTS OF TRIGGER WARNINGS. DO NOT READ IF UNCOMFORTABLE WITH SENSITIVE SUBJECT MATTERS.   
> Originally posted 8/30/16
> 
> Reminder: Daehyun is not a good person. 
> 
> Recommended song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDJOP16yNdY

All stories start with a beginning. For Youngjae’s, his happens to start some time in the womb. Metaphorically speaking, that’s where he first meets Daehyun. Leaning down, his very pregnant mother tells a crawling baby, “You’re gonna love my daughter.”

 

Of course, that was a joke. And Youngjae very much turned out to be a boy, to the dismay of his mother. Although, he supposes, he can blame those mother-daughter aspirations on his pretty and feminine looks of today. Biologically Youngjae takes after his father but with his mother’s long lashes and cheekbones.

 

Life is compromise.

 

Which is why those romantic jokes developed into ones about friendship.

 

On January 24th, 1994, Youngjae is born. However, that early portion of life is solely composed of photos and stories provided by his mother. She paints him pictures of parks and tucked in bedtimes.

 

Most of her flashbacks contain one very large house and adorable little boy. That kid is the son of her employer and apparently Youngjae’s childhood friend. Youngjae says “apparently,” because it’s the image that’s been thrust upon him his whole life, not from his own choice. He’s never really had anyone else but Jung Daehyun.

 

Daily, his mother brings Youngjae to visit a boy only six months older than himself, up until he’s old enough to stay home without a sitter. Babysitters were a luxury that their household could not afford. So he accompanies her to that gigantic house with all the floors that needed to be waxed. He can recall sitting in a playpen, watching her silhouette in the kitchen with boiling pots and pans. The lids would rattle from the piping hot water and he’d listen to them rumble.

 

His favorite image of her will always be of hanging up the Jung’s laundry on one of the balconies. The wind would waft in the scents of fabric softener as the sheets would sway like the leaves of the trees behind them. The light from the sun would hit them just right and wrap them in a warm glow.

 

The best times at the Jungs always were when he was with his mother.

 

(“You boys were so cute. You always clung to each other even while napping,” she sighs with a reminiscing hand on her cheek.)

 

At around three, Youngjae’s earliest memory forms. It comes to him like a slide show when he thinks back to it--a montage of clips. Not everything is entirely there. His mother’s own personal account of the event, however, fills in some of his missing gaps. It’s somewhere around their five-hundredth play date, she thinks back. Daehyun’s around four at the time.

 

She’s preparing lunch in the kitchen for Mrs. Jung and Daehyun, the two mothers conversing together, when a loud crash comes from the living room. When they come out, there’s Youngjae with his head bleeding, most of it staining the red brick of the fireplace.

 

“You were always such a clumsy child,” she waves. “You tripped and fell over so many things. Gosh, whenever I called your dad, he’d always ask what you’ve gotten into now.”

 

(“You also made more work for me, seeing as I always had to scrub up your messes,” she jokes.)

 

Youngjae has scars from all those injuries, too, but this one especially; it’s faded and white on his forehead. Sometimes, he lifts his bangs and runs a finger over it, feeling the raised skin. The others have healed or are in the process of, but this one stays through the years.

 

“Oh! Do you remember when you were twelve and fell out of that tree?”

 

He remembers. Specifically, he recalls how Daehyun had pushed him then, too. Just like at three. Or at thirteen when Daehyun gives him a concussion after tackling him head first into the dirt during a soccer game. Even that time when they’re fifteen and he almost drowns.

 

Stitches. Bruises. Bloody noses and lips. Broken bones. Black eyes. Scars.

 

He can attribute a theme to each year of his life, based on the most prolific injuries then. Like at seventeen he can recall how obsessed Daehyun was with his lips. His were always in a constant state of swollen, cracked, or bleeding. At eighteen, it was about his fingers and in which ways they could contort.

 

Youngjae’s six when he first tells his mother how he does not wish to see Daehyun anymore. “I don't like going, mommy,” he whines as she drags him towards the pearlescent blue house. The big black gates behind them have closed. His heels scrape against the crackless pavement leading up to the steps.

 

His mother sighs. Dropping his hand, she leans down to eye level. She softly holds his shoulders, “Be a good boy and do this for mommy,” she smiles. “I’ll get you something good from the candy store on the way home. How about it? Just some cleaning and cooking and then we can go.” She smells like fresh laundry, but that’s nothing special seeing as she always does.

 

He kicks at some dust and with a shaky hand grabs a hold of his mother’s once more. He doesn’t say anything and listens to the elegant melody of the doorbell play through the many rooms of the home. Youngjae looks up at the stories towering over them like a daunting beast. The sparkling windows look like the dozens of eyes of a monster. He much prefers his own place more, it’s cute and small like him. It’s so easy to get lost inside of Daehyun’s.

 

The double doors open, revealing Mrs. Jung with Daehyun beside her. He has a grip on her cashmere dress. He greets Youngjae and his mother, giving a bit of a bow to both.

 

Youngjae’s mother lets go of his hand and ushers him in, pushing on the small of his back. “It won’t be long,” she whispers low enough for him. She smiles towards Mrs. Jung, “Good morning.” The two proceed to disappear into the kitchen, leaving the boys behind.

 

“Hi,” Youngjae mumbles, feeling shy in one of Daehyun’s hand-me-downs. It’s too big for him and the sleeves pool around his hands. Daehyun observes the way in which he fiddles with the hem of the sweater.

 

Daehyun turns and walks towards his living room, signaling for Youngjae to trot behind him. Laid on a plush rug are toy cars and building blocks. Youngjae watches Daehyun begin to engage with them first before proceeding to sit down beside him, too.

 

Youngjae eyes the miniature red car in Daehyun’s hands. It reminds him of the one he begged his mother for in the toy store a while back. Youngjae says nothing and picks up the teddy bear abandoned in the corner. One of the straps to its green corduroy overalls is broken. Youngjae fiddles with the clasp until it’s properly buttoned on again.

 

He can hear his mother’s voice from the kitchen. Her laughter drifts through. Youngjae looks to the doorway, hoping she finishes up work soon. Thoughts of different kinds of candies and desserts drive a smile onto Youngjae’s face. The bear stares back at him with glossy glass eyes.

 

“I want to play hide-and-seek,” Daehyun’s voice overlaps with his mother’s faint one.

 

Youngjae blinks, wanting to refuse. But Daehyun has already gotten up to his feet and turned his back.

 

“I’ll count to ten.”

 

Ten: Youngjae scrambles up.

 

Nine: Out of the living room.

 

Eight: Staring down the long expanse of a hallway.

 

Seven: Up to the second floor, nearly tripping on the spiral wood staircase.

 

Six: Run down to a door that’s already slightly ajar.

 

Five: It’s Daehyun’s room.

 

Four: Into the closet.

 

Three: Hold your breath from all the dust.

 

Two: Forget how dark it is.  

 

One: Hope to be found soon.  

 

Youngjae sits there amongst the coats and boxes. He can’t see anything except for the faint outlines of shadows. He can’t hear much either.

 

Everything smells like fabric softener.

 

He hopes Daehyun finds him and ends the game soon. Youngjae’s never been a fan of hide-and-seek. He’s never allowed to be the seeker, which is how he finds himself sitting for hours in dark, cramp spaces. He thinks eagerly about the candy store.

 

Youngjae’s ears perk up when he hears a resounding click come from outside. He shoots up and grabs ahold of the doorknob, twisting it furiously. It moves back and forth in his hands, but it doesn’t budge like he wishes. There’s no satisfying rotation or opening of the door.

 

“Daehyun?” Youngjae calls, knocking on the door. There’s no reply and his voice becomes more desperate. “Daehyun?” He continues on calling his name like a shriek. Youngjae isn’t strong enough to break down the door. He calls for his mother and gets the same absentee response.

 

It’s dark. It’s quiet. It’s small. He can lift both his arms and feel either ends of the wall. His heart races. His quickened breaths seem to heat up the small closet. He wonders if there’s enough air for him to breath.

 

He bangs on the wooden door, begging. It’s so hot inside now. Only a string of light makes it from under the door, that tiny gap above the floor. This is what it must be like to be in a coffin.

 

“Mommy?” Youngjae cries, tears burning his cheeks.

 

Eventually, he tires himself out and sits on the floor. He falls asleep amongst all the panic and stress. He hopes his mom comes for him soon.

 

He rouses to consciousness when the door opens. Light bombards him, his eyes can hardly adjust. A blurry vision of Daehyun stands before him.

 

“Found you.” Daehyun grabs his hand and pulls him out from the confined space.

 

The window outside shows the moon.

 

“Your mom went home and we’re going to have a sleep over.”

 

 

(“Do you remember that time where you hid yourself in the house because you didn’t want to go home? You were such a silly kid. Good thing Mrs. Jung was fine with having you stay over those nights.”)

 

At twenty-three, Youngjae still has a mild form of claustrophobia. And a whole slew of other problems as a result of Daehyun. He hasn’t slept well in a long time. Functioning is a hilarious concept. His nails are blunt and inflamed from all the self-inflicted biting. It's a nasty habit he still has yet to conquer.

 

In public, Youngjae’s quite good at hiding behind a facade of sarcasm and satire. But how you act alone is a true testament of character: Yoo Youngjae is a certified coward. He’s been one at every stage in life: four, eight, thirteen, seventeen, and twenty-three.

 

His mother never minded the bruises Youngjae got whenever he and Daehyun were together. “Boys will be boys.” And maybe that’s why it was okay for the bruises to become cuts and scrapes as they grew older. His knees went from blooms of purple to pools of red.

 

“It's okay, Youngjae,” she'd say as she wiped at his wounds with rubbing alcohol. She'd ignore the way he'd flinch away, keeping a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place. It's a cool burn that turns into a searing pain. “You're such a good boy.”

 

 

Youngjae’s mother brings home a puppy for him one day.

 

“I saw her in a box with some others while grocery shopping. Isn't she just darling?”

 

That night, Youngjae and the puppy cuddle together as the dulcet tones of his parents arguing surge through plaster walls. The dog walks all over him, sniffing and searching for that ideal spot that only she knows of. She finds that special place nestled between Youngjae’s arms. Waddling herself in there, she claims residence by licking Youngjae’s face, as if proclaiming, “This is prime real estate. I'll take it. Here's my down payment.” Bark. Slobber. Bark.

 

3 AM can't come quick enough.

 

At twelve, Youngjae’s father insists he take up odd jobs at the Jungs so that he may take full responsibility for Jello. Upon showing up for his first day, Mrs. Jung hugs him and exclaims how tall he's gotten. Although, he's still the shortest boy in his class.

 

“It's been so long,” she says, twirling him around at every angle, “I haven't seen you in months. I'm sure Daehyun missed you, too. He’ll be so ecstatic when he sees you.” She pinches his cheeks, “I guess you really are old enough to stay home alone, though. Just look at you!” She doesn't notice the way Youngjae grimaces at the mention of Daehyun.

 

Mrs. Jung reminds Youngjae of his mother from the way she can talk and talk. He supposes that's why they get along so great. He has to wonder, though, how the two designate who gets to talk and who listens at any given moment. They both are the type to dominate a conversation without meaning to. He assumes it must involve a lot of talking over each other.

 

Youngjae’s weeding the garden when he hears the melody of a piano drift through an open window. The curtains billow as if the song forces them apart and not the wind running through the blades of grass. It's soft like a classic he's never heard before.

 

Daehyun must be having a piano lesson, he thinks to himself. He pulls at another offending weed as it struggles to stay earthed. His hands are blistered. The music reminds him of the time Daehyun smashed the piano cover onto his fingers. Until Youngjae got some semblance of feeling besides pain back into his fingers, Daehyun had volunteered to spoon feed him every meal they had together. What chivalrous behavior, their mothers thought.

 

So much food had been spilled onto Youngjae during that time, often he had to borrow some of Daehyun’s to wear. Not that it's too different from already wearing his hand-me-downs. But these clothes fit him even less and made him feel even frailer than he thought he was, too. He felt so humiliated wearing too big clothes and having to have someone care for him. When he went home in those shirts, he could still smell him.  

 

He hates Daehyun. He hates Daehyun. He hates Daehyun.

 

The music stops.

 

Youngjae’s back in the garden. He peers up at the window where the music was once flowing from and sees instead Daehyun staring down at him from up high. He's leaning on his elbows and smiling.

 

Youngjae falls out of a tree a week later.

 

He weeds the garden with one arm as Daehyun does the area across from him. How nice. How sweet to help your friend with the broken arm to do chores. It makes Youngjae’s fucking skin crawl. He doesn't say anything, though. Because Daehyun is rich. Daehyun is smart. Daehyun is handsome. He is “Oh, did you hear what Daehyun did this time?”

 

(“I'm so glad you and Daehyun get along, Youngjae. He's such a good influence on you.”)

 

Youngjae asks to bring Jello over one day while he works outside, watering the flowers and such. Mrs. Jung agrees, excited to see a lively dog run around in the gigantic backyard. He wonders how she bred such a thing like Daehyun.

 

Jello stays by his side eagerly, occasionally smelling each and every flower. She chases a bee around before timidly coming back to him after it flew a bit too close to her with that loud buzzing. He scratches her behind her ear with his newly healed arm.

 

She's no longer the size of a puppy at this point, seemingly taller than him when he sits. Her fur reminds him of the marigolds. She laps at the water as it rushes out of the hose and runs through the sprinklers when they go off.

 

At the end of the day, Youngjae watches her as she bounces around, excited from all the sights and smells. She's his best friend, he thinks to himself. Although Daehyun and Youngjae attend different schools, he still has trouble feeling at ease. Aside from answering the teacher’s questions, he doesn’t talk much. His lunch breaks are spent in the library, doing homework and reading, or getting ahead in next week’s lesson. Occasionally, he may use that time to chat with his teacher, hanging out in their classroom.

 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't have many friends. Everyone leaves him alone and he thinks he much prefers that. His sense of humor divulges into cynicism and people dislike assholes quite a bit. Even if Youngjae considers himself a bit witty.

 

(“Yeah, mom. I have lots of friends.”)

 

Jello rests by his legs now as he sits on the porch. He's finished his work for the day and his mom should be done soon and all three of them will be able to go home together. The garden has taken on an orange hue as the sun descends in the distance.

 

She snores by his side and it makes him laugh. He can tell by the way her legs twitch that she’s dreaming about chasing something. He runs his hands through her fur, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her stomach.

 

“Your mother asked me to come and get you,” Daehyun’s voice causes Youngjae to stir. He’s bent over and the words come from behind his ear. “She needs you to do something for her.”

 

He looks at Daehyun. “Thanks,” Youngjae mumbles, collecting himself up. He rushes inside.

 

Except his mother didn’t ask for him and when he comes back out Jello is gone. There sits Daehyun on the porch and the garden’s back gate open. He tilts his head at him and shrugs his shoulders.

 

Youngjae spends weeks putting up missing dogs fliers.

 

For being irresponsible and losing Jello, Youngjae’s forced to take on other chores at the Jung residence. He’s doing the laundry one day in the basement when Daehyun descends the stairs. He says something and Youngjae doesn’t quite register his words before he jumps him, unleashing all his pent up rage.  

 

Youngjae gets one good punch in to make Daehyun’s lip bleed before the other flips them over. He licks the corner of his mouth, tasting the iron. He smirks down at him with a look that makes Youngjae shiver.

 

“You’re a psychopath,” Youngjae screams as he struggles beneath the older boy.

 

“Yes, but I’m yours,” Daehyun breaths before hitting him in the gut, a place the bruises won’t be seen--along with his arms which will be covered by the sleeves of his sweater later. Youngjae gasps and grunts. It hurts. Daehyun’s stronger than him at this age with arms and legs more toned from years of after school sports.

 

(“Thank goodness Daehyun told me about the bullying problem at your school. I’m sorry I didn’t notice all your bruises earlier, Youngjae. I would have transferred you to Daehyun’s school sooner.”)

 

There is no escape from Daehyun. He’s the perfect boy next door with all the academic and sports achievements to support the claim. Youngjae once came home with one of Daehyun’s toy cars when he was younger. He didn’t steal it, he swore to his mother, but that didn’t stop the lecture and grounding.

 

Youngjae’s that kid from the family teetering on the poverty line who should be oh so thankful to have such good company as the Jungs, as his parents put it.

 

So he applies for a scholarship to Daehyun’s private school and loses the solace he once had at his public one. He sits with him at lunch with his friends. He smiles and laughs when appropriate. His parents are overjoyed with his rise in education.

 

Daehyun’s friends are nice, or on the surface they seem so. Youngjae talks to them at the minimum amount to seem friendly. If they choose to associate with Daehyun then there are high chances that they’re just like him: malice wrapped in charming packages.

 

His lack of effort seems inconsequential to them. They engage him in conversation, telling him jokes. He wonders if this is what having friends is like. One of them, Junhong, clings to Youngjae during these times. It makes for quite the spectacle seeing as the boy is much taller than himself. He learns to tolerate it.

 

Despite the other boys, each lunch he attempts an escape to the library. Youngjae tries to get lost in the crowd of students that flood from the classrooms as soon as the bells ring. He keeps his head low, focused on the tiled floors. However, before he gets any further than past the first row of lockers, Daehyun already has a hold of him with that damn condescending smile that implies “nice try.”

 

His last remaining safe place becomes his own home. He escapes from school and work, into his own bedroom. His bookshelf is full of library sale content, worlds with heroes and happy endings. All of them bought with a few dollars and quarters. Of course, even that gets taken away from him. Daehyun asks Youngjae’s mother if he may borrow his books. His shelf depletes itself like a barrel with a leak.

 

Girls at school call Daehyun a heartthrob, but not in the way Youngjae would describe it like them. His heart certainly pounds when he’s in his presence, in the sense someone experiencing impending death might. Whenever they gossip in the hall or blush in Daehyun’s presence, Youngjae pities them. But a part of him, one he does not admit to acknowledging, hopes that Daehyun takes a liking to one of them and leave him alone eventually.

 

Youngjae’s a freshman rummaging through his locker when his ears perk up to one of their conversations:

 

“Did you see Daehyun at the soccer practice yesterday? He looked so hot. I swear I thought I was going to die just staring at him. When he lifted his jersey to wipe his sweat? Jesus.”

 

Youngjae fakes a gag to himself as he puts his books away in his backpack.

 

Daehyun throws an arm around his shoulders, “And what did you think of my practice yesterday?”

 

Youngjae shrugs his arm off, “I thought I was going to die, too. Unfortunately, I lived.”

 

“You’ll be watching today’s practice, as well. Right?” Daehyun leans against the locker beside him, completely ignoring Youngjae’s sarcasm after hearing years of it.

 

“Do you ever let me walk home by myself?” Youngjae blinks.

 

“Nope.”

 

 

He sits on the bleachers with a book in hand, ignoring the soccer team playing a mock match amongst themselves. A whistle blows in the background. The same girls from the hallway sit several rows below him. They gush about each player, but Daehyun especially.

 

“Oh my God! He’s looking right at us.”

 

Youngjae glances up from his novel and makes eye contact with Daehyun.

 

The girls scream.

 

Idiots, Youngjae thinks.

 

 

“Idiots.” Daehyun reiterates on their walk back.

 

Youngjae carries both of their backpacks. “Is that any way to talk to a lady? If your mother heard you…” he snickers.

 

“Ladies?” Daehyun scoffs as they approach his house. “You make for a better girl than any of those hags,” he turns to Youngjae and lifts his chin up with a finger. “Some eyeliner and blush and you’d have the boys lining up, wouldn’t you?”

 

Youngjae pulls his face away, feeling his skin burn at the sight Daehyun once touched. But Daehyun latches onto his wrist and drags the boy to his home. “C’mon, let’s play a game.” A game in which Daehyun straddles the thrashing boy beneath him as he smears lipstick onto him.

 

Daehyun kisses him afterwards, admiring his artwork.

 

(“God knows that when you finally get your dickless-self some stupid girl, you should at least know how to kiss. I’ll help you out of the goodness of my heart.”)

 

He finds himself thrown against floors and walls, his mouth covered by Daehyun’s. The kisses are rough and cause Youngjae’s lips to swell. He pushes on his chest to break away. Breathless is the way Daehyun leaves him. It’s fine, though, Youngjae convinces himself. People experiment with each other and that doesn’t have to make them gay.

 

 

It’s not gay, Youngjae repeats as Daehyun pushes his face into the pillow for him to bite as the other relentlessly thrusts into him from behind.

 

 

Youngjae works in the garden despite being unable to walk.

 

Daehyun plays the piano.

 

At eighteen, Daehyun announces a surprise for both their parents. It’s a thank you gift for years of support and care: a week-long trip to another city. With his money from a past summer internship and saved allowances, he hopes to give them a relaxing time.

 

“Youngjae can stay with me while you guys are gone. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves for a while. Or I think at least,” he jokes as he throws an arm around him. His grip is tight enough to almost dislocate his shoulder.

 

“Yes, we’ll be fine,” Youngjae agrees with a strained grin. “It'll be like our old sleepovers.”

 

So, Youngjae helps his parents pack and waves the Jungs and them goodbye as a cab to the airport pulls up. As it turns down the driveway and disappears, he wonders how the week will pan out. He follows Daehyun inside and the door locks behind him.

 

“It must kill you inside to have to pretend to be normal and nice all the time, doesn’t it?” Youngjae remarks, edging away and putting more space between the two of them. “But that would imply you aren’t already dead inside.”

 

Daehyun gives that high society laugh and takes a step forward.

 

Youngjae steps back.

 

They do this until Daehyun has him properly cornered against the wall. He leans forward, an arm to the side of Youngjae’s head. “Always so cute, aren’t we?” he asks. His hand draws closer, dragging itself across Youngjae’s body until it reaches his collar.

 

Youngjae’s breath hitches.

 

Daehyun tugs on his shirt, throwing him down across the floor, “Try to be on your best behavior and maybe I will too.”  

 

Youngjae stares at his reflection in the polished floors.

 

 

(“We’re both guys, after all. What’s wrong with sharing a bed together? Are you insecure about your sexuality or something?”)

 

Youngjae struggles not to fall off the edge of the bed as he attempts to keep the distance between him and Daehyun at a maximum. It's too hot to have any covers over himself. His skin feels as if it's on fire. These hot flashes come and go in waves.

 

Daehyun rolls over and throws an arm over Youngjae's waist when he no longer has room to scurry over anymore. He's left effectively trapped. Despite the many guest rooms, this isn't the first time Youngjae's shared a bed with Daehyun. This is just how Daehyun prefers to sleep.

 

Past experience has shown that rolling off the bed rather than letting the other drape his arm over him results in being left on the floor. (“You wanna sleep on the ground like the filth you are? Then do so.”) Many sore backs the morning after has taught him to stay.

 

Daehyun's hand travels beneath his shirt, resting on his bare stomach. Unlike Youngjae's own heated body, Daehyun's hand is cold against his flesh. His body trembles.

 

In. Out. In… Youngjae listens to the sounds of Daehyun's breathing, so much so that he forgets to do it himself. When deemed thoroughly unconscious, Youngjae gently maneuvers himself out from Daehyun's grasp and towards the door. There are plenty of spare beds in the house. He tiptoes to dampen the creak of the hardwood floors. The ground is colder than Daehyun's body. His faint breathing comes through the background.

 

Finally, the door is in front of him. The handle almost glistens in the moonlight. He takes the knob in his hands and turns it. Except it doesn't move. It jiggles but not much else happens. Youngjae tries again and again, his movements growing more fanatic. He's locked in. Trapped like when he was six and felt like he'd suffocate in the closet.

 

He rams the door with his body, full force put into his shoulder. He can't breath. The room is growing smaller. Let him out, let him out. He's crying like a kid again. Nothing is getting into his lungs.

 

Hyperventilate.

 

After what Youngjae can only describe as eternity drowning, Daehyun strolls over to him. With a hand on Youngjae's wrist, he pulls him back into the bed. Almost dislodging his arm from the socket, “Shut up already. It’s four in the morning. Have a panic attack on your own time.”

 

Daehyun's words ground him back into reality. He's not trapped in a small closet. No. He's just stuck with a psychopath who exhibits a sane demeanor to everyone else but him. That's better, somehow. Youngjae closes his eyes and doesn't have any dreams.

 

He moves closer into Daehyun’s embrace.

 

In the morning, Youngjae looks at the boy’s face, impressed by the many forms evil can take. Manipulative bastard, he hisses in his head. Just how many human emotions and actions can you mimick?

 

He shifts his body, ready to leave, when he remembers the door is still locked. Glancing at the entrance, he stares at the mocking keyhole. He resigns himself and lays back down. Above is the same old ceiling. There used to be glow-in-the-dark star stickers up there. As a kid, he used to stare at them at two AM, waiting for the stars outside to disappear themselves and call upon morning. But they’re gone now and all that’s left is a boring expanse of nothing.

 

If he thinks about it, much of the room has changed, too. There used to be posters of movies and sports stars, along with photos. The walls are bare now, however, and adorned by medals and trophies instead. If not for a bed and desk, the room looks hardly lived in, the place devoid of personality. Any evidence of life, prior and now, are probably due to Mrs. Jung’s own insistence. He can already imagine her nagging at Daehyun to “spruce up the place.”

 

Daehyun stirs and draws out a charmingly sleepy smile towards him. “Good morning. If you’d like to continue last night’s spat of anxiety, you can do so now.”

 

Youngjae feels his blood pressure rising, “Go fuck yourself.”

 

His arms are pinned above his head and Daehyun on top of him, “If you insist,” he whispers, dragging his lips along his jugular. His lips gently graze his bobbing adam’s apple. However, this seemingly sweet gesture is interrupted by the harsh puncture of skin on teeth.

 

Youngjae gasps.

 

Daehyun suckles on the slowly blooming hickey, running a tongue over it. Youngjae can feel that smug smile of his burn against his body. As well as each shallow dip of his skin taking on the impression of Daehyun’s teeth marks.

 

“What say you and me have some fun?” His hand draws down to Youngjae’s shorts, diving beneath the waistband.

 

“W-wait!” Youngjae squeaks, kicking his legs.

 

Daehyun raises a brow, “Wait? You seem plenty ready as is…” he strokes Youngjae’s hardening member over his underwear. He swirls a finger over the outline of his tip, the growing damp spot on his briefs.

 

Youngjae moans as Daehyun captures his lips between his teeth. He can taste the iron of his own blood on him. Daehyun absorbs the sounds of his whimpers.

 

“What a sweet little masochist,” he sings.

 

Youngjae tries to gasp out a retort but Daehyun silences him abruptly. The grip on his wrists tighten. His shorts get pulled down to his knees, leaving him clad only in his undergarments from the waist down. His body reacts to Daehyun like muscle memory.

 

His shirt gets lifted up, revealing his chest. Daehyun leaves Youngjae’s mouth alone, allowing him to catch his breath, as he kisses a trail to the band of his underwear. Youngjae’s chest rises rapidly up and down. He inwardly begs for the strain of his pants to disappear as the blood rushes to his cock more and more.

 

Daehyun looks at him, “Does it hurt? Do you want me to take it off?” Youngjae’s hands are no longer held down by Daehyun. In fact, they haven’t in the last few minutes, but he still holds them above himself, neatly in place, as if instructed.

 

He shakes his head hard enough to start a headache. Knowing Daehyun, he revels in his pain. If something hurts him, he’ll continue the ministrations ten fold. Please, please, please, he whines.

 

Daehyun clicks his tongue, “What a bad boy. Lying to me?” He fingers the edge of his pants. “How can I reward such terrible behavior?”

 

“It hurts,” Youngjae whines, avoiding eye-contact.

 

“Really?” Daehyun chuckles, stroking him harder. “And what should I do about it?”

 

Youngjae gets lost in the feeling, “Please.”

 

Daehyun pecks his lips, “Good.”

 

Youngjae heaves a sigh as his penis is freed from the painful restraint of his underwear. Daehyun lazily pulls on his member, rolling his hand over his tip. He spreads the precum around, easing the friction as he flicks his wrist up and down. Youngjae is on the edge of orgasm when Daehyun abruptly stops.

 

He leans down to his ear, breath brushing against him, “If you want me to continue, you know what you need to do.” Daehyun positions himself down on the bed, taking on a comfortable pose. His back is against the headboard.

 

Quickly, Youngjae descends upon Daehyun’s sweatpants, pulling them down just low enough for Daehyun’s throbbing cock to emerge. He licks up the base of his penis as Daehyun watches, threading his fingers through Youngjae’s hair. He pushes him down and Youngjae gags on the warm unit. Daehyun’s precum is bitter, but Youngjae doesn’t focus on that much. Instead, he puts his best effort into pleasing Daehyun, bobbing his head up and down. He moans around the large cock filling his mouth.

 

He wants so badly to touch himself as he sucks Daehyun off, but knows he can’t. His body aches as the yearning grows. Youngjae mewls when Daehyun twists his fingers into his hair as if creating a makeshift handle. This is one of Youngjae’s favorite parts when he relentlessly fucks his mouth, slamming his head back and forth until he cums. He tries to swallow as much of it as he can, but a bit of it dribbles out his mouth. The sensation of Daehyun’s dick pulsating on his tongue as his cum ropes out drives him insane.

 

“Fuck…” he sighs, pulling Youngjae up from his cock by his hair. A resounding “pop” fills the room. He caresses his cheek, “You’ve gotten better,” he praises. Youngjae’s so fucking needy at this point that he ignores the patronizing tone of his.

 

He leans over and opens the drawer to the side of his bed, pulling out a bottle of lube. Youngjae licks his lips as he observes Daehyun pouring a generous amount of the liquid onto his fingers. He pushes Youngjae down and teasingly touches his entrance, circling around the ring of nerves.

 

One finger enters him, his back arches off of the bed.

 

Two and he’s writhing on the sheets.

 

Three and he's forgotten how to breath as he tries to gasp out the words of “fuck me, please, Daehyun.” But instead it comes out as shallow moans and fruitless pleading. He's pathetic and he knows it. But fuck it. He needs Daehyun's cock in him now.

 

Daehyun moves away Youngjae's sweat laden bangs from his forehead. “Do you know how cute you look right now? So damn horny and needy.” He growls as the head of his cock prods at his entrance.

 

Youngjae's cries as Daehyun's cock begins to push inside of him. He instinctively rocks his body, trying to get more of him inside.

 

“So impatient.” Daehyun remarks before thrusting in completely. “Perhaps you'd like to do this. Seeing as you're such a needy slut.” He shifts themselves over such that Youngjae's sits on top. “Ride me.”

 

And at this point, Youngjae loses the little control he didn't even know he still possessed. He bounces on Daehyun's dick repeatedly. The room is an echo chamber of his groans and satisfactory sighs.

 

Daehyun watches the show Youngjae puts on, occasionally adding in a thrust of his own. He has a grip on Youngjae's dick, stroking it as the boy nears orgasm.

 

“Are you going to cum, baby?” Daehyun grunts, thumbing the head of his cock.

 

“Yes, yes,” Youngjae breaths, speeding up his erratic tempo. It's only a couple more seconds until he cums onto Daehyun's chest, moaning his name. He doesn't have much time to process the explosion of pleasure when Daehyun flips them over.

 

His strong hands are on his hips and he's fucking Youngjae hard. He abuses his poor hole, grunting and kissing Youngjae. Youngjae's over sensitive after his own orgasm, but still finds pleasure in this too. Daehyun thrusts in and out of him for what seems like an eternity before Youngjae experiences that familiar feeling of Daehyun’s cum overflowing inside him.

 

He loves it.

 

 

Up until he lays alone on the bed, listening to the sound of Daehyun's shower running. He’s not gay, he repeats to himself. Girls are what Youngjae likes, clearly. They have long, smooth hair, the right length to stroke. Not short like Daehyun’s, only good to grasp in your hand in clumps to pull. Girls smell like flowers and not warm summer spices. Youngjae’s attracted to girls. However, if that’s a lie then the truth is reflected all over his body from the bruises blossoming in the places Daehyun had held him down as he rutted against him. They still sting and he is reminded of his strong hands. Youngjae chews on his lower lip just thinking about them.

 

Those thoughts disgust him. Although, apparently not enough to not give into Daehyun on a weekly basis. His grip on the sheets beneath him tighten. He’ll have to wash them sometime later in the day.

 

It’s been a while, Youngjae thinks. Only recently had he been able to convince his mother to allow him to focus on school work rather than spending his after school hours helping her at the Jungs. This hasn’t been his first attempt to avoid Daehyun, but at the time it seemed most successful. Past attempts all but led to getting fucked in the library, locker rooms, and cornered in empty classrooms.

 

Saturday morning is cum stained sheets.

 

Sunday is being fucked from behind on the duvet in the living room.

 

Monday is the unfortunate incident of being unable to walk on Tuesday.

 

Tuesday is waiting for his parents to come home as Daehyun takes him against the wall.

 

Wednesday is a blur along with all the other days.

 

 

At twenty-three, Youngjae doesn’t have any real friends. That is to say, he doesn’t try to make any. The unfortunate outcome of having his social skills molded by the likes of Daehyun. He’s all he has and, he supposes, wants.

 

(“Who are you without me, Youngjae?”)

 

If Daehyun is able to express any genuine emotion, then it’s only with Youngjae is it possible.

 

(“Youngjae, do you love me?”)

 

Even if they’re shallow, with the deepest one, perhaps, being possessive.

 

It’s not so bad of an existence. Youngjae’s used to it. Maybe he could be considered a bit of a martyr. He’s the only one that has to suffer through Daehyun’s actions. He takes the brunt of it all as the man reflects charm and brilliance to everyone else. The only one who gets to really know the actual him.

 

Maybe he is a masochist like Daehyun says.

 

 

He loves it.


End file.
